Imagery
by CaliforniaDreamer
Summary: Literati, complete. Paint a picture of me. Draw it in your mind, let the details come alive. Don't forget me.
1. Imagery

**Disclaimer: I don't own Gilmore Girls. I know, shocker.**

**Spoilers: Anything up to season 4 is fair game.**

**Rating: PG, to be safe. Mild language...and reflection on the season finale...**

**Summary: Paint a picture of me. Draw it in your mind, let the details come alive. Don't forget me.**

**A/N: Another one parter, and I still don't know where these come from. This has been bugging me for a while; time to see where it goes... Oh, this un-beta'd. Sorry 'bout that...I'm lazy.**

Imagery 

_"How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach."_—Elizabeth Barrett Browning

She had been lying there for hours. For some reason, sleep wouldn't come. Well, maybe it would if she could close her eyes. But, contrary to popular belief, it's not just blackness when you shut your eyes. You see through your mind's eye.

And she didn't want to see what it was showing her.

She'd had nights like this before, where sleep wouldn't come, simply because she didn't want to try. She could remember being a small child, keeping her eyes wide open, afraid of the monsters and such that would come if she dared to close her eyes. She'd ended up in Lorelai's bed, surrounded by the safety of her mother's arms, as if her touch could block out unwanted images.

It was times like this when she wished she could still run to her mommy. But no. She was nineteen years old! She was an adult. Adults don't run to their mommies.

_Adults don't cheat, either._

She winced as this thought flew through her mind.

_Cheating is a children's game._

That she knew. And she had felt like a child. Screaming 'I hate you', refusing to believe she was at fault. Trying to believe she was in love.

She was at fault. She saw him take off the ring, though she had been pawing at his shirt at the time. Then she had caressed his hand, fingertips sliding across his ring finger.

His ring finger. On which belonged a ring signifying his bond to a woman who wasn't her.

_She wasn't in love with him._

The concept hadn't hit her until that moment. The possibility that she, Rory Gilmore, resident angel child of Stars Hollow, could have possibly slept with someone she wasn't in love with. That she had been simply in lust. A lust driven by a desire to break out of her dry spell; driven by her love of a safe memory.

The realization shook her hard. She felt tears burning around her eyes, threatening to fall. But she couldn't let fall, couldn't let the tears develop into a sob.

She had no right to sob over this.

Instead, she took a deep breath, letting the memories seep out of her pores. She could feel his lips on hers, his arms around her, his weight pushing her back onto her bed.

This bed.

Suddenly, she felt ashamed to be in it. She actually shook her head, trying to wave the absurdity of that thought away. She sank back on her pillow just a bit farther, pulling her sheets tighter around her. They were different sheets, thank goodness. She had thrown those off her bed, never wanting to sleep on them again.

She could sleep now, she was sure. She had confronted the feeling. She wasn't afraid of being tortured by it as she willed herself to sleep. So she shut her eyes, almost happily. As happy as she could be, under the pretense.

But it was a different picture that formed in the darkness. It was hazy, popping up out of nowhere, really. It startled her, taking away hope for sleep. But her eyes remained shut, unable herself to pry them open.

She found herself studying it. No, him. It was as if someone had sketched a rough outline of him.

It wasn't enough.

She tried to focus on his face, but it was bland, without the distinctive features she had once fawned over. (She wasn't the type to fawn, really, but she wasn't blind. It wasn't like his looks had gone unnoticed, even if she did see beneath the surface.) Frowning, she thought hard, trying to place it all.

She couldn't remember.

The thought scared her. What scared her even more was that she was the very fact that she was scared. Of forgetting him that is. She was supposed to forget him, wasn't she? He hurt her. Forgetting was good when he hurt her, wasn't it?

Wasn't it Dean she was supposed to be thinking of? The one who was supposed to be plaguing her mind? She had slept with _him_. She didn't want to be with Jess.

But she couldn't close her eyes and think of Dean. It was only Jess, who came in her thoughts without warning. Just like Jess himself, popping up at the most inconvenient times.

Now, she was more afraid to close her eyes than before, knowing what really awaited her when she did.

Yet, she kind of wanted to.

Not that she would admit it to herself, of course. Denial had been a Gilmore staple as long as she could remember.

So of course, she told herself that it was the sleep deprivation pulling her eyelids closed. In fact, she had even been trying to fight them. But being as tired as she was, she just couldn't manage.

Sure enough, his face was floating before her eye again, slightly clearer than before. She studied it harder, probing for details.

She could see his eyes, full of teasing. The cinnamon flecks stood out against the rich brown background so distinctly. You normally couldn't tell, it would all muddle together, as if to insure that no one could read them. But the colors were vivid now, the browns coming alive, fighting their dull characteristic. His eyebrows were cocked upward, a dark brown arrow pointing towards his forehead.

As she followed the direction of his eyebrows, she noticed the slight wrinkles on his forehead. If it were anyone else, she would have inferred a smile. It being Jess, she expected no more than a smirk. Nevertheless, the wrinkles were a comforting sight.

What a strange thought, that she would find something as insignificant as wrinkles on a forehead comforting. She shrugged off the thought and continued to explore.

Soft creases curved up around the corners of his eyelids, the tiniest of creases. They looked so real, like she could reach out and feel the tiny dip they made. They brought her to his cheekbones, which stood out almost luminously. The skin was smooth, untarnished. It wasn't quite pale, as there was color; just the slightest color, flooding in. She could almost feel warmth radiating from them.

His nose fell in the middle of his face, a straight line until the tip, where it curved out perfectly. She let her eyes wander down the slope of it, finding it not completely smooth, coming across a slight bump. She longed to run her fingers across it, feel the texture, and feel the slight change in slope where the bump was. Yet at the same time, it was almost like she was, in fact, touching him.

She let her gaze continue to flow downward, taking note of the little dip between his nose and lips. However, it was not that patch of skin that intrigued her.

It was his lips. They formed the trademark smirk, the one she had been expecting.

She loved that smirk.

His lips were perfect. The lower one was out a bit, giving a slightly plump appearance. Both curved up slightly on the right, forming a crease around them. The smirk was situated almost crookedly on his face. It brought attention to his jaw line, perfectly square, making her want to graze her hand across it, just to feel the smooth skin in a flawless outline.

She zoomed out, putting the whole picture together. His hair perched messily on top of it all, a few delinquent pieces falling upon his forehead. The whole thing is so reminiscent of Holden Caulfield, she wants to smile. Or cry for all the memories flown into the past.

It is so vivid, so real.

She reached out her hand ever so slightly, as if she was hoping to slide it across his cheek. But of course, there was nothing there.

She opened her eyes, his face vanishing fast. She felt her heart sink. She knew he wasn't really there, that it was just a vain attempt to fulfill some fantasy she hadn't even realized she had.

She cried anyway.

She cried because he wasn't there, because she knew he could be. She cried at the thought of their last meeting, and of their first.

Most of all, she cried for the wonder of what could have been.

How does one fix the past?

By changing the future.

She gently bit her bottom lip, taking a deep breath in attempt to calm herself. She tried to think rationally, think of what she wanted it.

She couldn't help but think that she should want Dean. After, she slept with him, gave him her virginity. He said it didn't work out with Lindsey. So she should make it work out with him. Logically. But that really didn't seem so appealing to her.

What she wanted was to hear Jess.

It actually surprised her a bit, the feeling that all would be right if she could just prove he were real. Part of her was afraid, afraid of wanting more if she heard him.

A bigger part of her didn't care.

She got out of bed and began to search for a small scrap of paper in her desk. Once it was found, she just stared at it, the numbers burning themselves into her mind. She couldn't help but think it was just by chance that she had them. Her mom had somehow gotten Luke to sign some paper about the inn, commemorating Luke being an investor in the start of the Dragonfly. She had sent Rory to the diner to get it, and Luke had told her just to go upstairs and find it.

And of course, her eyes had fallen on the cell phone number taped to the refrigerator. For some unknown reason, she had copied it down.

Maybe it was fate. Did fate even exist?

No use pondering the mysteries of the universe now. Not when she had the unexplainable thirst to hear Jess's voice, and the means of quenching said thirst in front of her.

Slowly, she dialed the numbers. The dull ringing began.

And continued. On and on. Until finally...

"This better be damn good."

Oh crap. What was she doing? Panic filled her throat, making it impossible for any noise to come out. Yet, at the same time, relief washed over her. There he was. Real.

"Hello? Damn prank callers."

She became even more panicked, not wanting him to hang up, but not wanting to talk either.

"Jess, wait!" Crap.

"Rory?" He sounded utterly confused. Frankly, so was she.

"I...I just wanted to hear you." It comes out in a whisper, but he still heard it.

"Well...you heard me." She can't make out if that's confusion or suspicion in his voice. Maybe both, with a little...was that hope?... mixed in.

"Right." Silence. She can't bear it. "Sorry."

"What?" Back to confusion.

"You heard me." She hangs up, again fighting back tears. But it's going to be okay this time. He hasn't disappeared from her memory yet.

The phone began to ring.

She smiled, knowing that her picture didn't have to fade.


	2. Reality

**Disclaimer: I don't own Gilmore Girls. I know, shocker.**

**Spoilers: Anything up to season 4 is fair game.**

**Rating: PG, to be safe. Mild language...and reflection on the season finale...**

**Summary: Paint a picture of me. Draw it in your mind, let the details come alive. Don't forget me.**

**A/N: I know I said this was a one parter...I lied. But this really is the last chapter. Thank you all so much for the feedback, I hope this fits what you wanted in a sequel...**

Reality 

_"What is that you express in your eyes? It seems to me more than all the words I have read in my life."_—Walt Whitman

Rory had never been good at being spontaneous, especially it when it involved _him_. It seemed that nothing good ever came out of it. Well, nothing completely good.

So she was actually quite proud of herself right now. Or maybe she was just scared out of her mind.

Why could she never seem to tell emotions apart anymore?

_Because they were too pure_.

She shook her head. Never mind that. She was a woman on a mission.

She hadn't even picked up the phone. It was impossible for her to know it was him. Yet, she did know. She couldn't explain it, but she had just felt so relieved...it had to have been him.

But even so, she couldn't know if he planned to forgive her or yell at her. Probably the latter. He _should_ yell at her.

_She's not sure if she wants to be forgiven._

So she was driving to New York at three in the morning, on a trip completely based on doubts. She wasn't even sure what she was looking for. And on top of it all, she was still wearing her pajamas. That had to be a sign of insanity, right? Taking a road trip in pants adorned with monkeys?

She brushed away that thought. It didn't matter if she was insane. What mattered was that she had been right.

Hearing his voice hadn't been enough. She wanted more; she owed him more.

She had been prepared for a long, agonizing drive, but it had seemed she had only been driving a short while before seeing the trademark skyscrapers. Probably because his cloudy image was still haunting her. She wanted it to go away, but she didn't want to forget. She was stubborn that way.

So, of course she ended up in front his apartment, almost afraid to go in. Almost, but not quite.

Somehow, she made it to his front door, even as the doubt began to take over. That was thing with the Rory Gilmore brand of spontaneity. It didn't always get completely followed through.

But she had made it this far. All she had to do was knock. She'd figure it out from there; take baby steps.

On the count of one...

Two...

Slowly, she took a deep breath and timidly knocked her knuckles against the wood. Gaining confidence, she knocked again, louder.

As she braced for a third knock, the door swung open, not in the angry manner you'd expect when someone was knocking in the early morning, but a quick movement that was almost hopeful, wanting to see a certain person on the other side.

She couldn't read his expression, couldn't tell if she was whom he wanted to see.

He doesn't do anything. What can he do?

But she is frightened. She can't follow his lead now; she has to do this on her own. So she just studies him, this new image laid before her.

She frowns slightly when she sees that her previous picture does not quite match. The skin is paler now, as if it were actually afraid to let the color in. (It had done that once before, and look where it got him.) Every crease is somehow deepened. She can almost see the burden weighing them down. The browns in his eyes, once shining so vividly, are now muddled together, clouded by distrust.

_And the smirk is gone._

She wants to run now, knowing the cause of it all.

_Her._

He is still standing there, frozen. He just stares at her. A questioning stare; a fearful stare.

A hopeful stare.

She says nothing. Her heart is beating much to fast. Time is moving slower, or is it faster? She can't be sure, but whatever it is, her thoughts seem to be nonexistent. Perhaps it is for the best. Thinking in this situation has such dangerous potential.

At last, there is movement. Slowly, as if underwater, her hand moves toward his jaw line. After what seemed like an eternity, skin brushed upon skin.

She wasn't quite sure what she had expected. Maybe he wouldn't really be there.

But he was.

There was no shock; just the cool, smooth skin underneath hers. But she was satisfied with the simplicity of it.

She let her fingers trace down to his chin, lingering a while before releasing her touch.

His eyes bore into hers now. Something held her gaze with his, perhaps the intense shine that had appeared. She couldn't remember ever seeing his eyes look so..._alive_.

His hand reached out to meet the back of hers. What a contrast it was, the coarse skin rubbing against the velvet one. Much like themselves actually. The hands were of completely different textures, but it was skin all the same. They didn't clash, they just..._were._

They stood there like that for a long moment, scarcely breathing. They were nearly a foot apart, barely touching. Yet, Rory couldn't help but think that this was the most intimate of all moments shared between them.

The slight connection of their bodies evoked the rawest emotion she had ever experienced.

Love?

Love.

She let out a small breath of relief.

This was her moment of pure reality. She knew she would no longer be content with the images that faded when her eyes opened. Not when she could have, did have, the real thing right in front of her.

That is, if he lets her. If she lets herself.

They both move to grasp the other. She grips his arm tenderly above his elbow, and he slides his other arm around her waist, drawing her just slightly closer.

His face remains solemn, but he gives a slight nod of his head.

And Fate seems content now.

You see, she didn't run away this time. She merely smiled.

_This was real_.

**END.**

**So, how was it? Please tell me what you liked and didn't like about this piece so I can know for future reference!**


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